


Thieves In The Temple

by stealthboi (pocketluck)



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Light Bondage, M/M, Shameless Smut, Top!Deacon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 20:22:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10316228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketluck/pseuds/stealthboi
Summary: Nate and Deacon have great chemistry together. They joke, and they lie, and they pretend that they don't want to take their friendship any further. It works.Up until Nate goes into heat, that is.





	

The last gunshot scatters off into the air. Nate had picked the ghoul off from a pretty favorable distance, and Deacon whistles as he watches the final feral drop.

“Kind of bothers me that you’re so good at this.” Deacon kicks absently at a piece of scrap metal near a pile of debris that had filtered down from one of the towers. “What did they even do in the good ol’ days besides shooting?”

Nate holsters his gun with a smile. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I picked up all my skills by playing frisbee.”

“You always pegged me as more of a badminton kind of guy,” Deacon bends at the knees, holds up in a position that looks like he’s ready to blast the birdie back across the net, “I’d love to see what you can do with a racquet.”

“The world wouldn’t be able to handle it," Nate answers, trying to be as monotonous at possible, “I’d be unstoppable.”

Deacon smiles, sways a little, like he’s lining up the shot, as if he has ever actually played in his entire life. “ _Exactly._ I’ll see if Tom can hook you up.”

Nate can’t help it, seeing Deacon swing his invisible racquet with an overexaggerated forwards slash has him laughing, his hand going up to cover his mouth to try and muffle the noise. This was always happening, the banter, the light, _easy_ way him and Deacon just seem to operate on the same frequency. He hadn’t expected it from any alpha, and especially after the bombs, where no matter where you stumbled someone was trying to rip your head off. Deacon was – different. In a good way. One that Nate was still disbelievingly trying to process for himself.

“Let’s not end the world twice, Deeks,” Nate says, the laughter still clear in his voice, puts a finger under his chin and watches as Deacon lines up another shot. He’s standing straight, hips slightly twisted, feet flat, shaking his hand in a small circle. It reminds Nate of the statue standing outside of Diamond City; baseball-esque.  It’s endearing, even as it’s horrendously inaccurate.

Nate is stepping forward, tilting his head as if evaluating the stance and posture. He sees the glint of Deacon’s sunglasses shift, a minute change in angle as he turns his head so he can watch Nate approach.

Nate circles him, once. He makes a disapproving _click_ with his tongue.

“No, see, you got it all wrong.” Nate says, moves so he can stand at Deacon’s back.

“What? Master Badmintonteer is going to show me the ropes?” Deacon wiggles his fingers.

Nate places a hand on the wrist that’s supposed to be holding the racquet, and the other in the middle of his back, between his shoulder blades. He’s been this close before; after the dubbed _Big Talk_ , when he hadn’t been able to stop himself from pulling Deacon into a fierce hug. And just like then, he’s taken back by how _good_ Deacon smells. It’s the middle of summer, bright, hot, _sweaty_ , summer. Yet, Deacon smells like a wick that’s been dipped in gasoline, crisp and clear and slightly chemical, like a pinch of tobacco that’s just been given flame.

He tries to not let it get to him. (he’s failing.)

Nate pulls Deacon’s wrist down, so that his arm isn’t outright reaching into the air.

“You’ll never catch the shot like that. Come on, I know you’re quick on your feet,” Nate says, voice softer than he intended. He pushes a leg lightly behind Deacon’s, forces his legs to bend. “Gotta be ready to get a clear. Always keep moving.”

It’s a surprise. Nate doesn’t know what burst of courage must have surged through him for being so tactile. He’s never – well, not _never,_ maybe a bit here in there in those quiet, soft moments, thought of them as anything but close friends, partners in crime. He hadn’t trusted Deacon in the beginning; first, for being an alpha, and then for being just generally distant.

But _, now,_ Nate finds himself always with an excuse to get close. An arm around his shoulders when they share a beer, fingers brush when he passes a box of ammo, giving his arm a squeeze when he wants his attention. Nate can’t _stop._

“So, what’s the verdict? Think I got a chance to win the finals?” Deacon asks, but keeps his feet flat. Nate’s chest bumps lightly into his back. He hums, low in his throat, thumbs over the vein across Deacon’s wrist.

“Something tells me you already know the answer to that.” Nate is close enough now to where his lips are _just_ shy of touching the skin of Deacon’s cheek.

“ _Aha,_ you caught me.” Deacon’s voice is light, steady, but Nate can feel his body grow tense. “All my medals are back at HQ. Remind me to show you later. You won’t believe how I won the English Nationals.”

What Nate thinks: _too far._

Nate, for all his courage, can’t bring himself to press. He’s catching little hints in the air; whatever just happened between them has sent an underlying current of uneasy electricity. His stomach drops. He pulls his hand away, takes a couple steps back.

Nate feels his face heat up. He coughs into his fist – plays with the leather holster on his leg as an excuse to avert his eyes. He feels so _stupid._ Deacon had been one of the _only_ alphas not to hit on him. Their relationship was clear cut. He should have never tried to ask for more. Deacon turns around to face him, fixes the placement of his glasses with one finger.

“I can’t wait to hear about that adventure,” Nate says, as kindly as possible, gives him a small toothy smile. He knows he doesn't look nearly as convincing as he wants. Nate looks away, off down the road where their next hit was going to be, as a way to deflect some of the tension.

“We should get moving. Radstorm will be blowing in later today, right? Let’s finish up here and you can brag all you want.” Nate rolls his shoulders, the straps of his pack digging into his skin. His face still feels hot.

It's a retreat. They both know it. When he walks past Deacon, he makes sure there is plenty of space. The smell of gasoline lingers.

 

***

 

It takes longer than it should have to clear out those last couple of houses. By the time they reach the top floor of the last tower Nate was cramping, exhausted, and sweating through his shirt. He flops down onto a nearby chair with a groan.

“It’s so fucking hot,” Nate drags a hand through his oily hair. “You feel that?”

Deacon frowns. “It isn’t _that_ bad. I’m thinking lukewarm at most.”

“Don’t play with me. I’m burning up over here.” Nate plucks at his shirt, drafts some air over his stomach.

“You know this place still has air conditioning.” Deacon points back to where one of the windows has a running unit.

“And I’m telling you, I’m _dying,_ ” Nate says, suddenly breathless.

He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. He’s been through hotter days before, and the worst part is that Deacon is right. Cool air is blowing through the vents, he can hear the light hum of the unit working through all the patched modifications someone had applied to keep it operational, can see papers from the desk next to the window flutter slightly against the push of air. Except, it’s not working – not for him.

“Hey, you think it’s like you finally thawed out or something? Maybe that last bit of freezer burn has finally melted off and you’re just now getting hit with normal temperatures.” Deacon waves a hand over Nate’s heated face.

“Dee—I swear to _God_ —“ Nate wants to laugh, because it’s actually kind of funny to think about, but he’s dragged down into more annoyance over the fact that he feels like he’s melting out of his skin.

“Alright, call me: The Fanner. Coming to the rescue.” Deacon drops down to search through his bag. “I got all sorts of goodies in here. I’m sure I have something that can cool you down.”

Nate is swiping at his forehead, trying to keep up with the banter. “You can’t keep changing your name. I’m gonna start getting confused and then who’s gonna back you up when shit goes sideways?”

“Only _The Fanner_ can help you out of this mess. Very special secret agent Deacon has absolutely no intel on overheating.” Deacon responds without missing a beat. He’s still rummaging through his bag. _How much shit can he possibly have in there?_

“How about actual Deacon-Deacon? Splash some holy water on me.” Nate lifts one heavy arm into the air, acts like he’s holding a vial, deepens his voice into a rough growl, “Say: I _rebut_ the wickedness and heat out of your body.” He shakes his hand, slings it like he’s sprinkling water across the room.

Nate sees Deacon smile. (It does _not_ help him cool down.)

“Ooo, sorry. _That_ Deacon stepped out. You can leave a message on his landline. Call him up at 1-800-Holier-Than-Thou. I’m sure he’ll get back to you.” Deacon walks over to him with a bottle of purified water and a ping-pong paddle.

Nate is losing focus; running on auto-pilot. “Damn, I can never get in contact with that guy without an appointment.” He eyes the paddle.

“Don’t make that face. This is very serious medical equipment.” Deacon lifts the paddle, the string and ball swinging as he does. He wraps the string around his fingers, tears it off so that it’s just the board, and waves it back and forth across Nate’s face.

Nate, for whatever bullshit reason, is immediately pissed off. It's such a _stupid_ thing for Deacon to try.

“Oh, yeah. That’s amazing. Grade fucking A,” Nate says, a little too harshly, "Where'd you snag that grabage?"

It was supposed to be funny, on the same level, because he _knows_ Deacon is just trying to help. That’s what it always was: same page, same channel, same frequency. Push and pull. Mirroring each other’s steps. But he can’t – he can’t think straight. Nate presses the water bottle against his neck, rolls it up against his jaw. He just needs to cool down. He’ll stop being such an ass when he’s not sweating puddles.

It’s not Deacon’s fault. He shouldn’t be taking it out on him.

To his credit, Deacon doesn’t take any bait. “A man has to have have _some_ secrets.” It’s said in the same, easy way he always speaks. He’s not offended.

Nate closes his eyes, feels the light, gentle breeze of wind from the paddle in passing. His skin doesn’t cool. He feels his blood pulse heavily, gets lost in the beats of his heart, in the chemical wash of petrol that seems to fade in and out of his senses.

The climb up had been hard, like it usually was, but there’s no reason for him to be so fucking _tired._ His whole body feels heavy. He’s passing in and out of awareness. Nate’s not sure how long he sits there.

***

 

“This working? You’ve been down for a while,” Deacon asks, and his voice has the hair on the back of Nate’s neck standing up. He’s _worried._

Nate blinks, startles back into reality. The water that’s snugged between his cheek and his shoulder is warm. It’s turned dark outside. The night sky is visible from the window, clouds churn and block any hope of seeing stars in a pale green glow. The ceiling light is turned on but nothing else has been touched.

Deacon is in front of him, the paddle still moving. _Did he do that the whole time?_ Nate groggily lifts his head, straightens himself in the chair.

 _“_ Shit,” Nate rubs his eyes. “Sorry. I don’t – I don’t know why I’m so messed up right now.”

“We can stick it out here tonight, s’not a problem.” Deacon keeps fanning at him. He’s clearly concerned, any kind of playfulness in him before has disappeared. If their situations were reversed, Nate would be too.

Even worse, is that he’s still _hot._

Nate starts to get a nagging voice in the back of his head, starts to wonder if this is a bigger problem than just a fever. (please, don’t be that. don’t be that.) His last heat was two hundred years ago. He’s always had a cycle, regular as clockwork. Every four months he’d have to fight out another burst of his unfortunate presentation. It wasn’t a big deal – was never, _ever_ , a big deal. He either dealt with it on his own, or found an alpha he knew he could either trust or overpower, if things went south.

Nate has been out of the vault for a whole year without a lick of his normal cycle popping into his life. He figured that the cryo-process took more from him than just a couple of centuries.

(it better be a fucking fever.)

Nate sighs. “Not like there’s much of a choice anyway.” He looks back at the window. What was a pale glow has evolved into a dark green cloak. He swipes a hand down his face. There is a dull throbbing in the base of his skull, he feels tension building behind his eyelids, traveling down to his chest and stomach.

“I got all the essentials of home. Sit back and relax,” Deacon says, tries to sound reassuring, but Nate can pick out how _final_ that really was. Deacon’s not suggesting.

“You got it. Just, let me switch my clothes out.” Nate goes to stand up. He realizes very quickly that was a mistake.

He’s almost standing to full height by the time he starts to sway. The fire that was steadily burning underneath his skin flares bright hot like it had been boosted by a bellow. He feels that tension in his stomach twist, _change_ into a tingling desire that spreads further, follows the lines of his veins and his blood, sends his heart hammering behind his ribs.

It’s like all of his senses have been sent into maximum focus. Nate feels the world tilt, hears the _poud, pound,_ of his blood in his head, smells the smoke and gasoline of Deacon all around him.

He can’t catch himself. He’s trying to breathe past the sudden rush of longing that’s permeated every part of his body but he can’t control anything anymore – he’s going to _fall_

Deacon is there before his knees can buckle.

“ _Nate_ —" Deacon has an arm wrapped around his waist, a hand has gone up to cup his cheek. Deacon shuffles them forward, forces Nate to settle back into the chair. Nate is shaking now, his head dipping against his chest as he tries to reorientate.

Deacon’s hand feels like _ice_ on his heated skin. Nate pushes his face into it. He can’t help himself – he’s got his fingers hooking onto Deacon’s shirt, trying to decide if he wants him closer or if he should push him away. (closer, closer _, closer_ )

“I think – _oh_ ,” Nate breathes, swallows, “I think I know what’s happening now.” He trembles, laughs a little disbelievingly.

“Jesus,” Deacon responds, voice hoarse, “you’re in fucking _heat_.” He can probably smell Nate by now. If not before then _definitely_ now.

Nate nods against the palm of his hand, “I didn’t feel it before. Shit, it’s _bad._ ” Nate’s fingers clench tighter onto Deacon’s shirt.

 _“_ You didn’t feel–? How long has it _been_ since your last cycle?” Deacon asks, incredulous, starting to sound out of breath. His thumb brushes lightly against Nate’s cheek, almost absentminded, like he’s not fully aware of what he is doing.

Nate is opening his legs, tugging Deacon closer so that he can stand between them. He shouldn’t – he shouldn’t be _doing_ that, but Deacon smells so fucking good, just being around the smoke of him has Nate shuddering, has his mind running slow.

 _“_ I haven’t had _one,_ ” Nate cries softly, turns his head so he can nuzzle into Deacon’s cold hand. He can’t think, he feels like if Deacon were to leave he’d fall apart.

 _“_ Haven’t had one? Haven’t had _one?”_ Deacon is starting to pull away, so Nate locks his fingers onto his clothes and makes a sound of protest in his throat. “Is this your _first heat!?”_ The alarm in his voice has Nate shaking his head furiously.

“ _No_! No, I mean, I haven’t had one since I’ve been out of the vault!” Nate rests his forehead against Deacon’s stomach, his voice muffled. Deacon moves his hand to the nape of his neck, presses his palm to the skin there, and it’s like frigid liquid being poured down his back. Everywhere Deacon touches _cools_.

 _“_ That’s a _long_ time.” Deacon’s fingers are shaking.

“I didn’t think it was ever coming back.” Nate presses his face into Deacon’s stomach, pants. “It’s – so much worse than it usually is.” At this point, his fingers are starting to tear at the seams in Deacon’s shirt.

“This is bad. This is very, very, _very_ bad.” Deacon’s voice is almost shrill.

Nate wants to turn, wants to look up at him and regain some sense and tell him it’s fine, but his hands just grip harder. There’s fire running across his spine, etching out onto his ribs, every breath causes a flare. Sparks across the flint and tinder, lights him up – he can’t see past the flame in his skull.

He doesn’t know what he should _say._

He knows exactly what he wants to say _, do._ Past all the smoke and ash in his head, it’s clear. The desire Nate has for Deacon, all those nights he spent aching and wondering and wishing for it, has just been driven into a manic kind of want. His intelligence, compassion, humor, the way he takes whatever Nate throws at him and _challenges_ , the addictive pull of him. Nate knows what he wants, problem was – Deacon didn’t reciprocate.

Nate had to go and fall for the one alpha in the entire region who didn’t want him. It figures that he would find one last way to fuck himself over.

“I need to leave,” Deacon says suddenly. He starts to pull away, his hand falling off from Nate’s neck and moving so he can try to shake Nate’s fingers from the grip they have on his shirt.

“What? Are you crazy?” Nate has both hands on him now, moving from his stomach so they can clutch and claw at the swell of his hips. Deacon is shaking his head, trying to move backward, but every time he moves to take a step Nate’s fingers dig in.

“I can’t be _here_ , Wanderer.” Deacon says thickly, puts his hands over the ones on his hips, slides his fingers between so he can rip them from his crumpled blouse. The use of his codename stings; exactly the way it was supposed to.

Nate’s breathing turns heavy. “There’s a radstorm outside! I can’t let you go out into that!”

“ _Screw_ the radstorm,” Deacon moves, and Nate moves with him, falling onto his knees and hooking his fingers into the belt loops on his pants, “You’re. In. _Heat_.”

“I know, fuck, I know. It doesn’t have to be a problem. It’ll be done by morning. I just… have to make it till then.” Nate is shaking his head up at Deacon, watches a bead of sweat rolls down from behind his ear and disappears near his collarbone.

“Except it’s a huge problem. A fucking gigantic, enormous, ginormous, problem.” Deacon hands are completely shaking now. Nate watches, blinks, smells the chemical cigarette scent of him build in the air around them in a burst.

“Why are you acting like that? Dee, it’s my stupid issue.” Nate says, a new sense of frustration budding into him even as he feels arousal tingling at the base of his spine, his hands falling away. “I’m not about to _jump_ you. Is that why you’re so scared? Who the fuck do you think I am that I would force myself onto an alpha who doesn’t even want me—“

Deacon stumbles backward.

“Yeah—that? I wouldn’t be so sure.” Deacon says in a brittle, rushed voice _. Is he saying…_ Nate scowls.

“Stop it. That’s not fair. I can’t – I’m running a little slow here. You don’t get to _mess_ with me like that when I’m behind the ball.” Nate snapped, clambers to his feet. He sways, the world a rush of colors for the moment before his balance reasserts itself.

“Here’s the thing: I’m not lying to you.” Deacon scrubs a hand down his face, rubs his eyes underneath his sunglasses. “I _seriously_ , cross my heart, can’t be around you like this.”

“That’s such bullshit.” Nate steps closer, pushes at Deacon’s chest, ignores the twinge of his heart at the contact. “I thought we were finally past this! I thought you finally trusted me.”

“Nate—“ Deacon starts, his name this time, not the alias. Except, Nate can’t see past the anger that’s punched through all of his desire.

“No. _No._ I’ve heard enough.” Nate points a finger.

“Let’s fix it then, yeah? I’m going to go over to the other side of the room, and just so we can preserve your ridiculous sense of paranoia, you don’t have to talk or look at me for the rest of the night,” Nate says angrily, swipes a hand through his sweat slicked hair.

“It’s not _you_ I don’t trust!” Deacon explains tightly. It has Nate’s fingers freezing in his hair, his whole-body stock still.

“You have no idea, do you? It’s taking everything I have not to fuck you up against that wall right now.” Deacon continues, like everything has gone too far, like he can’t stop himself now that they’re in this situation.

Nate shudders, drags his shaking fingers through his hair one more time as a way to stall, to process.

“I’ve imagined this _so_ many times. There isn’t a single surface in my dreams that we haven’t fucked on. Bed, floor, wall, desk – you name it – I’ve thought about it.” Deacon’s glasses tip, slide down his nose, and Nate can see that he’s trying to get a better view of him biting his bottom lip as Deacon speaks.

“If you wanted me, why haven’t you said anything?” Nate asks, pulls at the collar of his shirt, tries to release some of the heat off his skin.

“Short or long version?”

“ _Deacon_.” Nate snaps.

“Because, I don’t deserve it. Any of it. You, especially.” His voice turns airy, brittle again.

“That is the _stupidest shit_ I have ever heard.” Nate groans.

“I told you. Look, me? I’m _scum._ I’m the shining example of exactly what you should be running away from.” Deacon pats a fist gently over his heart. “And you? _God_ , you. I don’t even deserve to be friends with you. How the hell was I supposed to ask for more?”

“You are so..!” Nate yells, starts pulling at his hair. “I should just get you a flogger. Why not a crown of thorns?”

“If that’s how you’re telling me you want to spice things up—“ Deacon begins, falls back onto the deflections, the emotional dodges.

“You are the most frustrating man I’ve ever met. I’ve been pining after you for months – and your explanation for ignoring it is that you don’t think you _deserve_ me?” Nate says, steps closer, smells the nicotine drift off from Deacon’s skin, feels the heat race and rage and the constant fire burn a little brighter underneath his skin. “Remind me to kick your ass later.”

“What happened to you staying over there?” With every step Nate takes, Deacon takes two back. They’ve become a slow moving circle around the room.

“Let me lay it out for you. I’m done playing that shit. I want you, you want me, it seems pretty clear.” Nate is gradually walking now, following Deacon in a series of zigzags that’s hard to keep up with. He’ll catch hints of him when he manages to get close; the same smoke, the same kerosene that makes him lightheaded and wanting, except, it’s sweeter than it was before.

They mirror each other for a while. With every step Nate’s heat gets a little worse, the nervousness and the anticipation building as he gets close only to be chasing him again and again, the push and pull.

Eventually, Deacon lets himself be cornered, presses his back to next to a clothing rack that’s been built into the wall.

“I really, _really,_ don’t want to say no. And, I’m not.” He says in a rough voice. Nate stops a couple of quick strides away from him.

“So, what are you saying?”

“We sit this one out. I know, believe me, I know.” Deacon adds when Nate shakes his head.

“Wait? What are you gonna do? Disappear in the middle of the night? No thanks.” Nate answers.

“Whatever I am, whatever you are, there’s… a lot to discuss. About this. Us. I don’t want to fuck it up before we get a handle on what we both want out of this,” Deacon says earnestly.

Nate, even through the haze of his heat, can begrudgingly concede. (he hates it.)

“I can’t believe you’re going to ask me to sit through this heat alone when you’re _right there_.” Nate gestures with an open hand. Deacon laughs a little breathlessly.

“Shit, it’s not going to be much fun for me either. But it’s the safe thing to do.” Deacon slides down the wall, crosses his legs on the floor. Nate sighs.

He wasn’t lying when he said he would never try to have an alpha that didn’t want him. Nate wanted Deacon more than anything he’s _ever_ wanted before – but he knew that there were some steps they skipped. It _hurt._ He was hot and sweating and this heat was beginning to be the most intense he’s had, but even then, he wasn’t going to try and get Deacon to do something he was not ready for.

Nate sighs.

“Fine. It’s going to suck, but. I can do this on my own.” He looks away, unable to help the cry in his head screaming ( _go, go, go_ ). He goes back to where he had dropped his pack when they entered the building; takes a couple of waters out and a box of sugar bombs.

“For _tonight._ ” Deacon points out. Nate aborts a laugh that nearly snuck out of his throat, huffs instead. Deacon’s not fooled.

Nate pops the cap off one of the bottles. He was going to drink it, but halfway up to his lips he changes his mind. He holds it over his head, pours it over his heated skin; the water is clean and cool and feels almost good enough – but it’s nothing compared to how good Deacon’s cold hands felt against his cheek, his neck, his hands.

He ranks a hand through his hair again, dispelling some of the water droplets. It rolls down from his cheekbones and follows a trail from the hinge of his jaw onto his neck. When he glances back at Deacon, another spark catches light, shoots right down to his lower stomach.

Deacon is gripping his knees with his hands. He’s breathing through his nose, chest heaving, his arms shaking. Nate can’t really see if his eyes are open behind the sunglasses, but he instinctively knows they are.

Nate smiles, collects a drop of water that’s stuck to his chin. “You all right?” He asks. (he shouldn’t. oh well.) If this was how it was going to be, he might as well have some fun with it. After all the time he spent lovestruck over Deacon, he’d say it was fair game.

“Peachy.” Deacon says, silvery. “I am one _hundred_ percent good.” His fingers tightened on his knees. Nate hums in acknowledgement.

“You sure?” Nate pulls at his bag. He drops the empty water bottle into the bottom.

“I’ve never been more sure of just how good I am. Songs should be written about how okay I am in this moment.” Deacon bumps his head against the wall lightly. Nate gives him a sarcastic _“ah._ ”

“Even so. I’m thinking preemptive measures must be taken. Since you don’t want to help out.” Nate’s hands finally close around the item he’s been searching in his bag for. The metal of the handcuffs feels cold and smooth against his skin. “And that’s fine. Your choice. But, uh. I’m going to have to...take come of some things. Probably best if you don’t get any ideas.”

When he raises the handcuffs up, shakes them in the air with a jingle so that Deacon can realize that he’s serious, Deacon goes stiff against the wall.

He _groans._ “I think I’d prefer that crown of thorns instead. You wouldn’t have that in your bag, by chance?” He doesn’t move. He stays still, keeps his hands on his knees when Nate approaches. Nate didn’t expect to get this far, truthfully.

“Hands up,” he says. He shouldn’t have come this close. Without the distance between them, his heat crackles across his skin, like it knows there’s an alpha ready for him, and it brings on a new spell of dizziness.

“Got it.” Deacon raises his arms obediently, and even now, Nate doesn’t _expect_ it. He’s been bluffing this whole time, it was just an excuse to mess with him—get a little closer besides the fact they agreed not to do anything tonight. He doesn’t expect Deacon to be so easy about it _. (that’s how it is, right? light, easy. push and pull.)_

Nate puts half the cuff into his pocket quickly. He tugs open his belt. He doesn’t miss the way Deacon’s breath hitches. He wraps it around the hanger on the wall, creates a circle. He pulls the cuffs out his pocket and slips one end through the hole. This way, he can get both of Deacon’s hands.

He locks both of Deacon’s wrists in. Their hands touch, just briefly, just a second of contact, but it’s enough to send another flare through Nate’s body. He’s not sure how many of those he can take. He puts the key for the cuffs in his pocket, steps back.

 _“_ Still good?” Nate finds himself asking. Deacon is looking down towards the floor, his breathing is rushed.

“Didn’t you hear me before? Songs should be written. Poems and hymns and battle cries.” Deacon says in a thick voice. Nate swallows, nods. He walks back to his side of the room. His heat has only escalated.

He has been able to ignore the worst of it only because his emotions were going haywire; because his conversation with Deacon was taking all of his focus and energy, but now – now, he can’t focus on anything else. He stumbles once on his way to the farthest corner. It’s as if each current that shoots through his body, each flare, builds that tension in his stomach till it’s a tight tangle.

He hasn’t felt like this in more than a year. If he was going to be specific about it, that number increased dramatically.

Nate sits down on the floor. He can’t bring himself to stand anymore. In his dreams, in an ideal situation, he would have a bed where he could spread his legs out and fuck himself into the cushions. A decrepit tower in the middle of a radiation storm wasn’t exactly his idea of a comfortable place to spend his heat.

He’s pressing his back against the wall. He considers looking at Deacon again—just to check on him. He doesn’t know what he was thinking. They’ve crossed so many boundaries today, kicked in a couple of doors. He should talk to him, see if he’s really okay about it all.

But he can’t. Nate knows that if he looks over and sees Deacon bound there, possibly straining and _wanting_ him, he won’t be able to say no a second time.

He closes his eyes. He has a hand resting flat on the floor, the other pressing into his stomach. Another hot rush pulses through his blood, starts to ring in his head. He slips that hand under his shirt, ghosts it over his skin.

He’s groaning, a tiny huff of air leaves him as he strokes fingers down his stomach. It’s not enough. Of course it’s not enough, but, he was hoping – at the very least for Deacon’s sake, that he could get past this without to go much further.

That hope is burnt to ashes with the next shooting flare. He cries out a little at that one, they’re getting stronger, _longer_ , his heat is building despite all of his attempts to cool it down. His hand comes out from under his shirt.

Any kind of embarrassment is buried with the next burst of flame under his skin. Nate is pulling at his pants, sweat making them stick and cling to his body. His hips are making small rolls into the air, grinding onto nothing, but it’s so instinctive that he can’t bring himself to stop it. His hand settles between his thighs, presses his hand onto his jeans and _drags_. It rough, the pleasure from it diluted without having skin on skin, but even so—its _good._ It’s the first real taste of satisfaction he’s had all night.

He does it again, drags his hand down, rolls his hips. It sends a tingling jolt up through his legs, makes his thighs clench and presses his back harder against the wall as he tries to get some leverage. He presses his feet flat, his knees pointed up, takes another drag.

He could come like this. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say that he could come more than once just by rubbing himself through his pants. He’s just so _alert_ , his skin burning and his heat giving him this terrible heightened awareness about everything his body feels, touches. The pressure of the wall at his back, the warmth of his skin, the tingling pleasure that builds in his spine every time he presses hard enough, the way he can still smell Deacon across from him—the way he knows that Deacon is _watching_ him—

He rolls his hips again, moans as his hands squeeze. He imagines a very different setting: back at home, in a cool bed. Deacon mouths at his neck, his shoulder, his hands smoothing up and down Nate’s arms, twines their fingers together.

The image shifts: this time, he’s got Deacon on his knees. He’s fucking into his mouth, pushing into a welcoming warm heat, and Deacon moans and swallows around him, ranks his fingers down Nate’s stomach. Nate pushes forward, again and again and again, feels his cock hit the back of Deacon’s throat, feels that pleasure white out his vision, and he’s _close_ —

He’s back on the bed. His legs are wrapped around Deacon’s waist, his hands holding backwards and up onto the headboard, trying to stay still against the hard-rocking upwards motion that jolts his body every time Deacon pushes into him. In his fantasies, Deacon still has his sunglasses on, because even there it seems too invasive to get rid of them, but that doesn’t stop the dream from causing Nate to feel so fucking wanted and trusted and appreciated. Deacon pushes into him, tells him how good Nate feels, fucks him hard and rough and is whispering praises against his mouth, and Nate is _there_ , he’s almost there just a couple more—

Nate is moaning out Deacon’s name, dragging his hand faster and faster.

“Nate, holy _fuck—_ please, sugar,” Deacon says, sounding wrecked and _ruined_. Nate doesn’t even think when he opens his eyes and looks at him, sees Deacon pulling against his binds. His body jolts, the pleasure in him spiking.

There’s slow honey filling his lungs, sickly sweet, burning up up _up,_ Nate’s body thrums with a shudder. His head falls back against the wall, sweating, chest heaving, muscles aching with the effort to keep still. He groans, a pathetic little sound low and deep in the back of his throat. Deacon starts furiously pulling away from his cuffs.

_God, that's—_

Deacon lets out a loud, choked cry.

He’s scrambling. Deacon’s wrists tug violently against his cuffs. His fingers twist around to bend at the bands, scratching at where metal meets skin, the clanking of the chains being pulled tight reverberate with what might as well been a clap of thunder.

Nate presses his hand harder against himself, he can’t stop. That ball of pleasure curls, builds further, but he just can’t seem to bring himself over, he feels so _close_.

“ _Dee_ —!” Nate says, feebly, voice hoarse. He presses back further into the wall. Deacon watches, enraptured, as Nate’s hips roll, trembling, pushes his hand roughly against his jeans, grinding the heel of his palm over his cock, once, twice—

“Oh, God,” Deacon’s voice cracks, “I lied. I’m a liar. I can’t take this.” His arms pull forward, stretching from where they hung above his head, his tugging relentless. His face is flushed pink, mouth open and struggling for air, the omnipresent shades have slid down to dangle precariously on the tip of his nose.

Nate is trying to breathe, trying to get his lips to work. He feels almost absent from the normal functions of his body. All he feels is _hot hot hot,_ but he manages, his hand faltering. He licks his dry lips, forces some rational back into his mind.

“We can’t…neither of us can go out into that radstorm. We have to wait this out.” Nate says sluggishly, thinking about their conversation earlier with a special kind of hatred. He canters his neck so he can look anywhere else. His hand twitches against his thigh, wanting to continue where he left off. Nate barely makes out the “ _no no no_!” Deacon cries at the suggestion over the pounding of his head, the rush of his blood.

“Sugar, come over here and unlock these cuffs, yeah?” Deacon tries, and even with his eyes staring up at the ceiling Nate knows he’s struggling against his binds again, and gives him an affronted groan.

“I can’t! Dee, we can’t. You said—” Nate cuts off, feels the heat build, feels the wetness between his thighs soak through his jeans with a warm gush. He lets out a soft whimper, clenching his eyes shut, can smell Deacon— _alpha_ — his brain corrects for him, across the room like a match that’s just been lit, the smoke of it as addictive as nicotine.

“I know what I said. Forget about past me. Past me was an _idiot._ ” The chains clink as Deacon pulls a little harder.

“I thought we— _fuck_ , I can’t.” Nate whines, tries to push himself further back into the wall.

“You _can._ You so, so, can. The key is still in your pocket. You didn’t throw it out.” The clanking of the metal chains ends as Deacon stills, the anticipation of whether his play worked forcing him stiff, and Nate breathes in a great rush of air through his nose as he realizes Deacon was right, how _stupid_ it was to make it that easy if he were to change his mind, all he had to do was grab the key, cross the room, rip those cuffs and jeans off, and sink down _onto_ — “Left side, baby.” Deacon offers.

It’s stupid. They already talked about this, already agreed. Now wasn’t the time. They should be clear headed, no metaphorical gavels hanging above their necks. If he let go, this was going to change their whole dynamic _. Hate to break up a winning combination,_ Nate remembers, worries, shakes against the wall, hears the way Deacon is panting across from him, sits as the heady desire saturates the air.

His fingers close around the key.

Nate turns his eyes downward from the ceiling, his legs spreading open as pulls the key from his pocket. Deacon lets out a rushed sigh.

“Half way there,” Deacon says, encouraging, blue eyes just barely visible from behind the black shine of his glasses. Nate stands on shaking legs, head dizzy, the world swimming as he loses himself in the scent of a thick smoke, body burning as the embers landed on his skin. The distance between them was gone in a matter of seconds.

Nate drops down, lands on Deacon with little more than an “ _oomph_ ”, and Deacon spreads his thighs to accommodate. Nate can’t stop the sudden punch of reality to his gut, even as his body _sings_ with the proximity. It’s horrible. It’s perfection incarnate. It’s a fucking tragedy. He wants so badly to apologize, he’s trying to scream his guilt, trying to tell Deacon how all of this is his fault, he knows— or, he would have tried.

Deacon kisses him. Deacon _kisses him._ Nate had a vague impression of how a heat-fuck would go down as soon as he stood up, the hard rutting of it, the scratch of the stone against his back, the feeling of Deacon pounding him into the pavement, yet somehow, he hadn’t imagined this. The key that was clasped in Nate’s fist lands with a ring on the ground.

He is kissing back before he even realizes it, another hot rush of slick spills out of him at the first touch of Deacon’s lips against his. The sunglasses brush against the height of his cheekbones, behind them, Deacon’s eyes remain open, wide and fully dilated.

Nate is clutching onto the collar of his shirt, trying to pull him closer, and Deacon swipes his tongue across Nate’s lips. There’s a moan, another press of lips, another hot, open mouthed kiss, another singe of a cigarette being put out over Nate’s skin, before the sunglasses fall from Deacon’s face and clatter to the concrete.

“Ah,” Deacon says simply, almost numb.

Between the heat, the trembling, the hammering of his pulse, Nate feels like he’s suddenly been dropped into a freezing lake. His thighs lock in place around Deacon’s hips, body going as solid as steel.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.” Nate covers his eyes with one hand, the other locked in a vice grip on Deacon’s wrinkled shirt. They’re _so close._ Nate was so close to flushing out the fire in his system, but even near delirious, on the edge of begging for it, he knows that a line has been crossed.

“Not exactly ideal, but, hey, I can work with it,” Deacon says, like it was the simplest thing in the world. His hips are slowly grinding up into Nate as he speaks, and that, accompanied with the fact that he just told Nate he _didn’t give a fuck_ has him whining low in the back of his throat. Nate didn’t move his hand away from his face, but his other one goes down to grip at the flesh of Deacon’s hip, presses and pulls and grinds back into him blind.

There’s a feverish chill over his entire body. Little pinpricks of pleasure from where Nate can feel the hardness between Deacon’s legs push into him with every quick drag up send his mind scattering. He realizes with a pathetic thump of his heart that he could come like this, skin not even touching, just the weight of it, just the imaginary thought of having it fill him to the brim, could leave him shuddering and building and sick with it. He would have forgotten all about the god damn key.

“I know you’re kinda busy, and I am _definitely_ not telling you to stop, but unlocking these cuffs would really help me out here,” Deacon says, his voice steady if not just a tad breathless, and the still rational part of Nate’s brain hates him for it.  He swallows loudly. “You could multitask.”

Nate is barely holding it together. What was a fragmented blistering before is an over compassing fire now. He’s desperate, eyes still closed and covered, moving up from pressing his ass back onto Deacon so he grind whatever inch of his cock he can through his jeans onto Deacon’s pelvis. It’s good. It’s so, so good. The push makes him gasp, makes his fingers dig into Deacon’s skin hard enough to break skin. A couple more quick rolls of his hips, and he can feel Deacon start to shudder underneath him.

“That’s…shit _,_ Nate. Unlock me. Un- _fucking_ -lock me.” Deacon’s voice is harder now, firm and demanding, and just _right,_ that is has Nate stopping mid-grind and his hands searching frantically for the key on the floor. When he finds it, the cold metal is like a shock to his system, the drastic differences in temperature causing Nate’s fingers to shake when reaches for the lock in between the chain links.

“Almost got it,” Nate says, but his fingers won’t move. He’s holding the lock in his hand, the key pushed in. All he has to do is turn it. Just turn it. Open it up and let Deacon shed the metal guards and then he can just sit back and finally be _fucked_ but deep inside, in the pit of his stomach, he feels not only tension and desire but fear over where this is going to put them in the morning. When the heat is over and the excuses are gone, he wonders how they’re going to get past this, what this is going to mean, to himself, to _Deacon_.

He’s stuck. Frozen. He’s breathing through the haze and trying to make sense of it all but he just can’t bring himself to move _._

Nate feels warm, soft lips land the side of his neck. Deacon starts pressing little kisses to the parts of skin he can reach, up over neck, to the edge of jaw against the stubble. Small hints of teeth, a tease, play gently over his skin. He moves down again to linger over Nate’s adam’s apple, a sly press of his tongue goes there, before he opens his mouth completely and begins to suck a blossoming bruise. A ploy, this time. An unspoken message. It’s like Deacon saying _: please._

Nate can't deny him anything, and turns the key.

Deacon’s arms drop, a dark ring circles the bones of his wrists where he had tugged against the metal. Nate expects the roughness to begin: to be turned over, stripped, thrust into hard and fast and without restraint.

He’s beginning to realize that Deacon is _nothing_ like his past lovers.

Deacon sucks in a great deep breath, presses one hand to cup at Nate’s jaw, thumb resting on the edge of his mouth. Nate shifts, lets it rest on his bottom lip, his eyes heavy lidded. There is a moment where they simply stare at one another, the desire mounting, but Deacon stays passive.

One breath, two. Their breathing matches. Nate sighs and lets his body go heavy, puts the last bit of his weight that had been resting on his knees onto Deacon’s lap.

“There it is,” Deacon says, a slow, tiny quirk of his lips.

“Shut up.” Nate sucks that finger into his mouth, laves his tongue over the pad. Deacon shudders, ups the ante by removing his thumb and replacing it with his index and middle, and Nate moans around them. He starts pulling them out and sliding them back in, fucking Nate’s mouth with his fingers, stealing his breath away.

A couple more thrusts of his fingers and Nate feels tears spring at the corners of his eyes. There’s no real pleasure in this, not the traditional kind, but even so he can’t help but feel unhinged and teetering over the edge by just the implications. He tries to warn him, tries to get his body to calm down for just a second and he should be able to keep going, but Deacon pushes his fingers in once more, raises his hips up as he can roll against Nate’s ass, and he’s _gone._

He loses himself in the first wave, the tears spilling from his eyes and rolling down his cheeks, shaking and burning and Deacon keeps fucking his mouth till the quivering stops and Nate is pressing his face into his shoulder.

“ _Fuck_ , Dee. You’re gonna wreck me,” Nate groans into his neck, licks the salt from his skin.

“I feel like that’s my line.” Deacon slips his hands under his shirt, rests them low on Nate’s back, kneads softly at the dimples above his ass. Nate feels himself stir again, and the heat that was subdued flares back into full force.

“Ngh,” Nate lifts up, tosses his shirt off and throws it to some corner of the room. “Come on. Stop—stop talking. Can we just…” He tugs at the bottom of Deacon’s shirt, and he presses away from the wall so that Nate can pull it over his head.

“Good plan. Great plan. Hell _, amazing_ plan. Whatever you want.” Deacon presses his wet fingers to one of Nate’s nipples. Nate hisses air through his teeth at the first pinch. He’s half worried that Deacon will drag out the teasing, but he doesn’t linger there long.

Deacon moves his hands downward in a quick glide over heated skin, across the ridges of Nate’s ribs, and pushes at the top of his pants. He hooks his fingers underneath the bands and Nate maneuvers just enough so he’s free and throws them in the same wild direction as his shirt.

The denim of Deacons pants feels rough underneath his thighs, the sweat cooling off his body as the cold air prickles goosebumps over his arms. He’s completely naked and Deacon is half dressed, but the heat has thrown all of his shame somewhere unreachable.

He’s reaching forward again, dragging Deacon in with a hand behind his head to lick into his mouth. The smell of coals fills his head again, feels like he’s rolling around in white hot ashes, and Deacon bites at his lips, lavishes his tongue over the sting. It’s wet, and messy, and _good,_ and with every passing second the kisses grow deeper and harder.

“Fuck, fuck _, fuck_ —“ Nate is moaning into Deacon’s mouth, the hand not clutching onto the back of his neck drops to struggle with the button of his jeans. It’s not enough, he needs skin, he needs—

Before he can pop the button open, Deacon is switching gears, always reading him, always picking up on the unspoken language of his body, and slides two fingers up through the slick that had coated the cleft of his ass to press into him.

Caught completely off guard, Nate wails as Deacon sinks down to the last knuckle.

“You gonna ride my fingers?” Deacon asks, voice low. Nate is nodding, words failing him, bringing his weight back to his knees and rolling just enough so that some of Deacon slips out before he’s dropping back down.

Deacon scissors his fingers, slick dripping out of Nate and onto his wrist, thrusts them in a random pattern of directions that leaves Nate guessing, gasping, every so often landing on that _one_ spot inside him that sends electric shock currents through his whole body.

Nate grips Deacon’s shoulders, closes his eyes, throws his head back on the next rock of his hips. He’s starting to build a rhythm, starting to get the hang of it, presses back into Deacon’s fingers with a frenzied hunger. For all the restraint built up in his lungs, he can’t keep quiet, can’t stop the “ _ah, ahh_ ” that spills out of his parted lips every time he gets the angle right. He’s fire, he’s smoke and ash and gunpowder, and if he rocks his hips just so—

Deacon adds a third finger.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Nate cries, rolls back on them harder. Deacon pumps, and the stretch of it leaves Nate gasping, trembling, his hands on Deacon’s shoulders gripping hard enough to leave finger shaped bruises. He feels almost full enough, almost like he’s finally giving his heat exactly what it’s wanted this whole time, but as he rocks back, feels Deacon just graze the place he wants touched the most, he knows that it is not _enough._ He goes to grip onto his neglected cock, but Deacon grabs his hand and forces it to the side, places it on his hip. Nate whines, then glares.

“Dee, _please,_ ” Nate says, presses wet, smoldering kisses against Deacon’s lips. Deacon opens his mouth, tilts his head, lets Nate lick into his mouth. He keeps pushing up, curling his fingers each time Nate drops down.

“Please, please, please,” Nate whispers like a litany between kisses, between the electric burns catching and crossing in his veins. He twines their fingers at Deacon’s hip together, places his other hand up so he can cup at the side of Deacon’s neck.

“Yeah?” Deacon asks, voice low and rough and his lips are swollen red. “That bad?”

Nate ignores how angry that would have made him any other time. Deacon _knows._ He’s messing with him again – but Nate can’t bother to argue about it.

“ _Bad_. So, bad.” Nate moves, starts biting his way Deacon’s chest, sucks one nipple into his mouth. Deacon moans, the fingers inside him push up roughly, and Nate has to brush away from biting at the nub to cry out. Deacon’s fingers don’t falter for long, the rhythm is already back, and it forces Nate to catch his breath.

Nate swipes his tongue over his nipple, lets his front teeth graze the tip. Deacon shivers, fucks his fingers up into Nate a little harder. Nate moves on, places a kiss over Deacon’s heart, licks and sucks and lingers there— the hickey that eventually purples is now his favorite part of Deacon’s body. Deacon slips his fingers completely out. Nate is pushing back, a sound of alarm rising out of his throat, but Deacon brings the hand holding Nate’s up to his lips, kisses his knuckles.

Deacon moves, presses his lips against Nate’s temple, " _Present_ , sugar.”

Nate scrambles. It’s exactly what the omega has been longing to hear—means that Deacon isn’t going to play around anymore. He gets off Deacon’s lap, hits the floor with his knees when he turns around. He gets down on all fours, the floor is cold and rough underneath his shins, scratches against his palms. Some of his hair falls into his eyes but he doesn’t dare move to swipe it away.

Nate can hear the metallic slide of Deacon opening his belt, hears the shuffle of fabric where Deacon pulls his pants off and throws them to the side. He’s shaking by the time Deacon puts his hands on him. Deacon drags one hand down his spine, follows the hard bumps of his bones, slides it around to knead at his ass. Nate can feel slick slip down his thighs – he’s frustrated and wanton and he just wants Deacon to hurry it up.

Deacon presses forward. Nate can feel the heat of his cock slip between his thighs. He kisses the back of Nate’s neck, licks some of the sweat from his skin. Nate trembles, breathes roughly, feels a great rush of fondness tighten his heart.

“Deacon, _fuck_ me already,” Nate says, pushes his ass back so that he can slide along his cock. Deacon’s breath hitches, holds Nate steady with two hands clutching at his hips.

Deacon pulls back, takes one hand off so he can line himself up. He’s _slow_ , thick cock sinking in inch by inch, words of praise spilling from his lips as he gasps and says “Oh, holy _hell_.”

Nate’s shoulders tense, but his body has been ready for this as soon as they entered the building – the push in is easy, _slick,_ absolutely no resistance from the natural lubrication and the stretch of fingers from earlier. He’s pushing back onto him, feels Deacon’s pelvis land against his ass when he fits all the way in.

Deacon pulses inside of him. He grabs a tighter hold on Nate’s hips, strokes his thumbs across the skin there briefly, and it almost throws Nate off-kilter, except for the fact that a second later Deacon is pulling out and _pounding_ back in — and this is what Nate had imagined, this is what Nate had wanted. The quick, hard strokes of Deacon’s cock fucks him down into the floor, he’s trying to keep himself from hitting his face, his arms straining with each thrust in, but his attention is divided.

Nate is moaning at each rough push in, trying to accept the rhythm, working as fast as he can to pick up the pace and get Deacon pushing hard and deep, sending that jolt of pleasure zinging through his spine and through his cock.

“ _Dee, Dee, Dee_ —“ Nate is crying out, unable to keep his name inside his throat. He can feel Deacon fall out of the tempo every time he moans it, feels the way Deacon’s hands clutch tighter to his hip and shoulder, fingers digging into his skin and creating red crescent shaped marks.

Nate can’t keep himself up – the pace of it, the hard smack of his cock fucking him open, the way pain that turns to pleasure as he knees burn and scrape against the ground – and his arms fall out from underneath him.

Deacon was faster. He pulls Nate up so that he can settle back onto his thighs, presses his chest fully against Nate’s back, forces his body to stretch upward. Deacon has less mobility, can’t drive into him as hard as he was before, but what was a hard thrust into Nate on his prostate was now a constant _drag_ as Deacon is forced deeper.

Nate reaches around, turns his head so that he can bite and kiss at Deacon’s lips from behind his shoulder. He raises up on his knees, clenches, drops down when Deacon thrusts up, is screaming out quick little “ _ah-ah-ahs,_ ” that break between their wet lips each time Deacon sinks deep into him. He can feel Deacon swelling, the stretch of him burning more than before, can feel the way Deacon thighs tremble.

Nate isn’t going to last – but neither is Deacon.

That tangle has increased, settled low in his stomach, he’s burning and moaning and catching another hit. He can’t – he can’t stop the exploding rush that makes him scream, he’s going to –

Deacon wraps a hand around his throat. He thrusts up, cock swelling and stretching into Nate hard, once, twice, and then, the hand on Nate’s throat _tightens_ , curls at the sides, forces the air from his lungs, and Nate is _done._

His vision darkens, and Deacon releases the tight grip on his throat only so he can grip onto Nate’s cock instead, strokes him down with quick, rough pulls. Nate sucks deep breaths of air through the racks of his body, a scream trying to tear its way out but falling voiceless and silent – Deacon keeps fucking into him, holds his steady, and Nate is reduced down to feeling only the pleasure of it, the way he keeps ringing out every erogenous part of his body, forces the feeling higher and higher, leaves Nate shuddering and overstimulated.

Deacon forces his swollen cock up one more time, stretches and fills and drags against the spot that sends flares shooting up through Nate’s stomach to the point where it is almost painful, before he muffles a cry into Nate’s hair, and locks himself in.

Nate takes a second to breathe, to feel the heat in him die down to a low simmering flame now that he’s been knotted. He gently, very, _very_ , gently, twists. Deacon settles flat onto the floor, rests the aching in his thighs and knees, and Nate perches himself onto his lap, feels the knot hold strong and push a little deeper.

He looks down at Deacon, a climbing disbelief beings to build in his chest, makes him suddenly nervous and shy and unsure. Nate closes his eyes, listens to his heart beat settle. There’s a moment where they sit there in a near comfortable silence, enjoy the bliss, the afterglow demanding a certain kind of quiet.

Eventually, Deacon strokes a hand down his thigh. Nate’s eyes open slowly, he feels heavy, sedated.

“Sooo…” He begins, thumbs over the crease where his hip meets his thigh. Nate smiles, drops his head to his chest and shakes. He’s _giggling._

“Your brilliant plan of waiting till morning was a failure.” Nate says, laughs lightly again. “Guess there’s always next time.” He knows exactly what he’s implying.

Question: ( _you and me? come on, you and me._ )

Deacon’s lips quirk into that small, gentle smile of his. “The plan was doomed from the start. It was poorly thought out. Why bother with a repeat? I’m thinking, next time, I might try and spoil you a bit. If I’m lucky, maybe even a bed.”

His answer: ( _yes_.)

Now that he can, Nate finds himself unable to look anywhere but the blue of his eyes. Deacon has small little crinkles growing at the edges, and since he’s smiling, they’ve been made deeper. He gets the instant, insatiable need to press kisses to them.

“I’m swooning already.” Nate laughs, places a hand dramatically over his eyes. Deacon reaches up, a hand cups the side of his face, his thumb sliding along the curve of his cheekbone. It’s a soft, intimate touch that makes Nate’s mouth dry and sends his heart thumping. He thought they would slip back into the usual routine: the easy deflections, the wit and the sarcasm and the way they never really say anything.

Deacon isn’t.

His eyes go soft. He pulls Nate down enough so that he can press a closed mouth kiss to his lips, brushes his thumb across his skin. It becomes the most important kiss of his life. He’s wanted this for so long – waited and wondered and worried over it for months, and now that it’s here, he is at a loss.

Nate doesn’t want to do too much. It sounds ridiculous in his head, because he was naked and sitting on Deacon’s lap and his knot was still burning thick inside of him, but that was somehow more simple then knowing just how far he could push at Deacon’s strings before he stepped on a frag-mine.

(he’s wary, nervous. trying to form excuses for himself in case things go wrong.)

He has to trust Deacon to know his own boundaries.

Nate opens up, sighs into his mouth. Deacon makes a low, pleased noise in his throat, exhales through his nose. His hand moves up to tangle into Nate’s oily hair, tugging him closer, and it has Nate deepening the kiss. He shifts, trying to chase Deacon’s lips when they part for air, and it sends Nate rocking back onto the knot inside him. Deacon’s hands shoot down at his hips to steady him with a hiss.

Nate kisses the corner of his mouth. “Sorry.” (he’s not.)

“Still a little tense down there,” Deacon says when he can unclench jaw. Nate rubs their noses together.

“When do you think you’ll be ready to go again?” He chuckles, taps the bruise over Deacon’s heart lightly.

“With the way you’re grinding?” Deacon smiles. “Not long.”

Nate laughs, and Deacon tries to give him an offended frown but it’s like his lips don’t get the message, and he ends up smiling and laughing into Nate’s mouth when he gets pulled back up into a kiss.

Outside, the last of the clouds dissipate and drift away. The sky clears – the stars and the moon are bright and visible, the only memory of the storm is a gentle breeze that filters through the rubble of the city. The night lulls, and stays quiet.

**Author's Note:**

> i have no impULSE CONTROL


End file.
